


Black Tie Affair

by somekindofseizure



Series: Black Tie Affair [1]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Library Sex, MSR, Spies, Undercover, bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-06-02 02:00:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6545893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somekindofseizure/pseuds/somekindofseizure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt:  "If you keep looking at me like that, we're not going to make it to a bed."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Tie Affair

*********

She hadn’t even tried it on. She had laid it across her forearms and marveled - ivory and heavily beaded, a shade that melted into her skin like a gauzy layer of camouflage.  Hanging on her armoire in an unzipped garment bag, it had seemed delicate and ethereal; an impression of innocence that she now realized was complete bullshit.  On her body, it was so heavy it tugged like a riptide when she walked, the edges of it scratching her skin like packed sand.

But it was too late to reconsider this beautiful abomination.  There hadn’t been a whole lot of backup options in her closet for an undercover mission at a billionaire criminal’s mansion.

She shifted her torso, trying to relieve the rash it was forming under her armpit as Mulder scanned the room with a discerning squint and a clenched jaw.   _This idiot thinks he’s James Bond._

“Stop fidgeting,” he advised, putting a hand on her arm.  She glared at him.  If she tried to shake him off, she might spill out of that dress like a glass of milk. Mulder was too distracted performing spy surveillance to note her expression of promised doom, and ultimately lifted the hand only to summon a waiter.

She took a deep breath and looked out into the sea of perfectly lit faces, suggestively arched eyebrows and silky waves falling across bare shoulders.  She felt a little twinge of nerves.  These were dangerous people and Mulder’s treating it like a game could get them killed.  He certainly looked the part, though; plump little bowtie and the line of his jacket skimming him just so.  The cocktail waiter approached and Scully tucked her chin.

“Don’t say it,” she pleaded under her breath.  “Don’t.”

But he leaned close to the waiter and lowered an eyebrow.  “Are these… shaken?  Or stirred?”

Scully seethed quietly out her nose and blinked her heavily lacquered lashes slowly. 

“I have no idea. They’re cucumber-flavored,” the waiter said.  Mulder smiled, as if intimating this civilian was now in on his act.  He took two drinks for them, but Scully placed hers back on the tray as the waiter passed.

“Cucumber,” Mulder said, shaking his head disapprovingly. “What kind of a spy drink is that?”

“It’s not a theme party, Mulder.  It’s not like they said, ‘everyone come here and act like a spy.’”

“You complain about being stuck in the basement, you complain about the driving around, you complain about skulking around cemeteries.  Well, now we’re in nice clothes at a cool party.  Can’t we have some fun?”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not going to pop a seam if you breathe.”  He quickly inspected the dress for proof of this.  It wouldn’t have killed him to tell her how good she looked.   When she’d come out of her building, there wasn’t so much as a whistle.  He’d just smirked, leaning against the limo like a prom date who’d just stashed the beer.

“What?” she had asked defensively.

“Nothing, nothing, I don’t know!  You just look… different.”

“Great, that’s what I’m going for.”

But she was here to work, not teach Mulder manners.  The sooner they got what they needed, the sooner she could get out of the dress from hell.  She set her shoulders back, tossing her hair to summon the essence of whatever kind of woman would be comfortable in this dress.  She found two familiar faces in the crowd and subtly looked away.

“I think those are the guys who followed us,” she said quietly, looking up at Mulder.  “Don’t turn around.”

“The henchmen?” he whispered dramatically.

“Don’t call them that. Put your hand on my waist.”  His hand was reluctant, hovering over the dress as if he was averse to touching her.

“This dress is really itchy,” he said, finally letting his hand settle there.  “Maybe you should have worn something more comfortable.”

She skimmed the satin lapel of his jacket for show as she growled under her breath.  He was wearing cologne for her, or rather for Susan Wallace, her alias.  He had insisted his be James.

“If you go around calling yourself James Bond, this cover will be blown in a fast five,” she had huffed in the car, crossing her leg toward him and then remembering the length of the slit up the front.  He grinned like a kid making his mom laugh in church.

“I’m not going to tell anyone else, just you,” he pestered, leaning into her ear.  “My fake last name is Bond.”  The ghost of his whisper haunted the erogenous zone behind her ear for the entire rest of the car ride, a fact that did not shake her.  It could have been anyone; it was just a matter of proximity.

Scully watched out the corner of her eye as the “henchmen” ( _sure, fine, whatever_ ) gradually slithered through the crowd.  Finally, they stopped, waylaid by two beautiful women. Scully could hear a word of conversation now and then, which meant she and Mulder had to be careful with their voices as well.

She inched closer to Mulder and felt the shiny leather of his shoe brush against her be-strapped toes.

“I can’t touch this dress anymore, it’s awful.”

“Then put your hand on my back,” she said, flinching as he did so.  She was not used to having nearly all thirty-three vertebrae exposed while working.

“Sorry,” he said.  She realized that hand could be of use.

“Scratch my back right where your third finger is…”  

He lifted his fingertips to their heads to get at her with his short nails.

“Ooooh, that feels good. Thank you.  Come on,” she breathed and pulled him to walk with her from the pool of bodies gathered in the… what was it?  A drawing room?  A parlor? Something regular people did not have in their houses.

“That spiral staircase.” They traversed an obstacle course of bejeweled people who were conniving and whispering about illicit activities, their world a scummy pond of sex and crime.  She leaned back into the crux of the bannister and positioned Mulder in front of her, using his height to hide as she studied the men.

“They’re making their way over here, I think.  Just stand close and don’t raise your voice.”  She took the martini from his hand and sipped it.  

“It’s pretty good, isn’t it? The cucumber?” he asked.

“If we stand here long enough, they’ll assume we’re lovers and get tired of watching.”

“I don’t think they’re going to get tired of watching,” he said.  

“Why not?” she asked distractedly.

“Have you looked in a mirror tonight… Susan?” he asked.  As she turned to look at him, the vodka eased its way through her arms, down to her toes.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think that was a compliment,” she said in mock awe.

“It’s purely procedural.”

“Should we switch places?  So my back is to them?”

“I don’t think that’ll solve the problem.”

“Is this how you flirt, Mulder?” she asked, hiding her lips from the men with her hand.

“No, it’s how James does.”

“Tighten that grip on me. Try to make it seem believable.”

The smooth sleeve of his jacket circled the perimeter of her waist, drawing her whole body closer, so close she could hear him swallowing, the saliva gathering and swishing in his mouth. She glanced at his neck and saw a thin film of sweat forming there.  

“Are you nervous?” she asked incredulously as she wiped it.  Mulder was never nervous and he had been especially cavalier about this mission.  

She considered her next move for just a moment.  And then she did it, touched her lips very briefly to his neck.  Gooseflesh rose up to his hairline and he turned his face to her with a kind of dumb expression.  His eyes were a different color at this close distance; greyer, more complex. She licked the salt and cologne off her lip.

One of the men was fully distracted, but the other seemed to be excusing himself from his company.  

“Sorry,” she whispered as she skimmed his ear with the V of her fingers. “The shorter one has a gun. I’m assuming the other one does too.” She could feel his shallow pulse, quickening at contact.  Her stomach turned, on automatic pilot, conditioned over the years to be wary whenever he was.

She pulled back to look at him, taking the toothpick from his drink.  His lips were already parted doll-like and she raised the toothpick to them.

“I don’t like olives,” he said.

“Open your mouth,” she said and slipped the olive past his lips. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yeah, it’s weird,” he said, voice strangely distorted.  “It’s an olive that tastes like a cucumber.”

“I didn’t mean about the olive.”

“Should we just go?” he asked, and she knew something was wrong.  He did not abort a mission easily.  “We won’t be able to get anything done with them on us like this.”

“No, I don’t want to fuck this up and have to buy another hideously uncomfortable gown.”  His eyes widened with some realization.

“Or… you’re having fun. _Susan_.”

“No, I am not,” she said defiantly.

“Are so.”

“Am not,” she insisted forcefully.

“Then why do you have a boner?”  

She laughed, felt her stomach settle again.   _So that’s what this is about._ She kept looking into his eyes as she imagined Susan would and slouched a little, indenting her body toward him, wanting to be in the loop in regards to this conversation.

“I believe that’s yours,” she said as if they had swapped water glasses.  

“Purely a matter of proximity,” he said with unexpected confidence.  She was getting an idea where it came from.  She grinned.

“That wouldn’t, by any chance, be for me, would it?  Susan Wallace, your date whom you have not yet properly thanked or complimented for squeezing herself into this dress for you?”  

“Come on, what’s our next move?  I can’t see them,” he said with more than a hint of frustration in his voice.

“They seem to be losing interest in us.”  She sipped the martini and cradled the rim with her lip, gazed at him and pretended to be studying the soft curves of his face.  “A few more minutes and they’ll be gone.  Just keep acting like you’re trying to get me into bed,” she said.

He seemed to have ceased blinking, he was beginning to – this was hard to admit to herself – smolder.

“If you keep looking at me like that, we’re not going to make it to a bed,” he said.  

Her heart stopped, and then started again with a pounding so hard she thought the beads would pop off her dress.  She could feel the cruel material digging its nails into her décolleté as her lungs scrambled for air.

Movement flapped in her peripheral vision.  The men were coming towards them again.  She thought quickly, pushed Mulder away and splashed the martini at him, storming off down the hall. It was that or kiss him, and even then they’d still be in the line of danger.  She clicked quickly down the black and white tiled floor, feeling like a pawn on a chessboard.  Mulder was right on her heels.  

“Susan…?   _Susan_ ,” he hollered theatrically.

She ran down a short flight of steps, holding the hem of her dress up like Cinderella.  There was a door, tucked castle-like into the mezzanine. It was locked.  Mulder was soon standing right beside her.  

“If they were following us they’ll be around that corner in ninety seconds,” he said quickly.  

“Credit card,” she said. He got one from his wallet and got them inside.  They sighed a few staggered breaths of relief once the door was locked behind them.  

Scully looked around and took in the lush textures of the room.  It was some kind of library - a cartoonish, villainous study. The shelves were stocked ominously high with thick leather-jacketed early editions. Any minute, a book might tip out and lead to a secret lair.  She marveled at the large bay window, framing the moonlight and suspending dust in its sleepy rays.  She made her way toward a library ladder on wheels.  Mulder took off his jacket and patted his face with it.

“Sorry about that, I thought it would seem like a convincing reason to get out of their sight,” she said, leaning against the ladder to assess the swollenness of her feet.  Here, the dress wooed her again as it had at first sight.  She shimmered head to toe, silvery across her chest and arms, gold down the length of the dress. The glow dimmed as Mulder’s shadow settled on her.  

Before she could speak, he lifted her chin and kissed her.  Lips closed and chaste, but fingers climbing like ivy up the side of her face.

It did not take her long to whisk up some half-assed logic about this being part of their cover.

Without leaving his mouth, she leaned back into the ladder and dragged him with her.  His hand slid around her back like he meant it this time, somehow finding enough space to slip into her dress.  His fingers wrapped around to the front of her ribcage, squeezing a little moan into her lungs and up her throat.

He liked the noise, took it as permission to nudge her mouth open.  His tongue was cold and clean from the vodka.  He explored the slit of the dress and then rippled a hand over the jagged material clinging to her body, conquering its treacherous surface.  She flattened her palms into his crisp white shirt, patting the martini stain.  

“You’re all wet,” she croaked apologetically.  Something dirty crossed his mind and raised his eyebrows.

“Don’t say it.  Don’t,” she warned, noticing his face was still damp. She stuck the tip of her tongue against his skin, picking up the droplets like lint – his cheek, his chin - licking the alcohol from the little indentation under his nose.  

He was leaning against her now, all six feet-something of tuxedoed fineness, and several notable inches of that fineness hard against her leg.  In a rough calculation, she realized that standing up straight, without her shoes, he would be pressing his erection into her belly.  And she kissed him harder.  This was not the result of generic “proximity.”  He very specifically wanted to fuck her.

Her hips begged her to loosen them, let them roll against him.  But even if she hated it, the dress was too expensive.  The beads would pull and fall, the material would pill.  She held still, paralyzed and aching as he pressed here… there… and _there, thank you, yes._ She dropped her head back and several books tumbled off the shelves.

He chuckled softly and pinned her with his desire.  She stared up at the elaborately molded ceiling as his fingertips traced the neckline of her stupid dress.  If he stayed there long enough, she thought she might be able to come. _Fuck, I shouldn’t do that either, I’m not wearing underwear._ His tongue was making its way down her neck and across her shoulder when she thought she saw the doorknob twitch.

“Up the inside of my thigh,” she breathed urgently and his hand slid up the inside of one leg.  Now they _both_ knew she wasn’t wearing underwear.  “Not that,” she started to say, but it came out like _nnnn,_ the next letter suddenly self-conscious of being a vowel, aware it might come out like a moan.  

“Scully,” he said in awe or gratitude, or both.  She felt a shrill rush of panic, hearing her real name.  She leaned her forehead on his shoulder, banged it softly there twice.

“That’s.  Not.  What I. Meannnnnt.”  He was sliding two fingers inside her.  The doorknob was definitely moving.  Someone was trying out keys.

“You’re all wet too… there, I got to say it.”  She shoved his arm a little, though of course not the one that had her right where she fucking wanted him.

“My other leg.  If they get the door open,” she managed.  He appeared not to hear her, stroking her deftly within the confines of the tight dress.  He placed his teeth against her neck and sucked, pressing her more firmly to him with the hand on her back.

“ _Mulder,_ the _gun_ is on my _inner right thigh_.”

He removed his fingers and she nearly whined, corking it into a whisper, wringing the fabric of the back of his shirt in her fists.  He tapped the handle of the gun as the heel of his hand pressed into the furious pulse at the front of her body.  His hand spanned all the way from there… to _there._

“Found it,” he said.  She was expecting his fingers again, but he smoothly curled his knuckles up against her, right in that spot again, the hard, slightly curved bones surfing the wet contours of her body.  

“Oh my God,” she inhaled, sucking in.  The ladder creaked and the doorknob twitched. She clung to the back of his neck as the pressure swelled.  

She heard the tiny clink of a string of beads hitting the floor.  She was moving and the dress was fraying.   _Don’t move, don’t move._ She felt a surge of desperation and fury at the thought that this dress might cost her an orgasm.

But in a moment his fingers were everywhere and heat radiated up her stomach muscles, tweaked her nipples, filled her head.  She tried to hold her breath, her lips gaping open in awe against the hollow of his cheek and her upper thighs shaking.

She smiled and sighed in delight, pitching forward slightly over the sharp slicing sensation in her stomach. Her knees buckled as she abdicated all power to him.  He pressed his palm into her, cupping the weight of her body as it fell with all the decadence of Rome into his hand.  

“Sssh,” he said and she pressed her mouth into his shoulder.

The lock on the door was engaging and the knob turning.  With the same fingers that had just brought her to climax, he reached down her leg for the handle of the gun and slid it out of the holster, cold metal against her damp skin.  Through the crack of the door came the din of the party, and then a voice, much closer. He flicked the safety and she held very still.   _I trust him. I trust him._

“No, not that room, the coats are in the other one.”

The door closed.  A false alarm.  

Mulder slid the gun back into place, finally bringing his hand out from under her dress.

“Bond… James Bond,” he said. She switched places, pressing him back into the ladder.  The air was thick with the mingled musk of books and the loamy scent of a spectacular, expensive-dress orgasm.

“Mulder, if you’re James Bond, do you know what that makes me?” she asked sweetly, slipping the silver clasp of his trousers open and peeling the zipper down.  He looked at her with hot, wet eyes and shook his head.

“A Bond girl.  Now climb up a few rungs so I don’t have to kneel in this dress.”  


End file.
